Queen of Broken Hearts (13 page)

We get to our feet, and Dory's expression remains serious. “No, it's not that. I'll go ahead and tell you so you can be thinking about it, okay? You're not going to like it, but promise me you won't say no until you give it a lot of thought.”

Wary, I watch her. “Sounds fair, though rather mysterious. What is it?”

“This past June fifteenth was Son's and my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, remember?”

“Of course I do. The week before would've been Mack's and my twenty-third.” Although their wedding was a few weeks after Dory and I graduated, Mack and I didn't marry until I finished my master's degree. “But you and Son were separated then, so you had to cancel the party plans.” It occurs to me what she wants to say. “Oh! You're planning to have the party after all, huh?”

After a moment's hesitation, she says, “It'll be at the Grand Hotel on the fifteenth of October. The boys will host it, though we'll foot the bill, naturally.”

“If you're asking whether I'll attend, honey, there's no need. I wouldn't do that to you—not show up at your party—even if I'm less than thrilled about you and Son getting back together.”

“What I'm asking isn't about the party, except indirectly. Son has gotten it in his head that we should make a public statement of our reconciliation. It's important to him.” When I widen my eyes, startled, she holds up a hand. “Please, Clare! Just hear me out for now, then I'm leaving so you can have a few minutes to yourself before the group arrives. I want you to think about something, okay? Son and I are talking about having a ceremony at the church before the party. A renewal of our wedding vows.”

“A ceremony?”

“The opposite of the one at our retreats, I guess,” she says with an ironic smile. “Believe me, when Son suggested it, my first reaction was pretty much like yours. But you're the one who's taught me the importance of ceremony.”

“Oh, Lord,” I say. “I should've known it'd come back to haunt me.”

Dory rushes on before I can interrupt again. “The more I thought about it, though, the more I liked it. A renewal ceremony for a twenty-fifth wedding anniversary feels
right
to me. I decided this morning that it was a great idea. Partly because Son brought me breakfast in bed, presented me with some lovely primroses, and wrote me the most unbelievable poem.”

“Whoa. Evidently middle age causes deafness, along with everything else. I could've sworn you said Son wrote you a
poem.
As I recall, if you hadn't written his essays for him, Son would've flunked every English course he took.”

A flush suffuses Dory's face with high color, and her eyes shine. “Can you believe he's writing poetry now? That's what I'm trying to tell you—this experience has turned him into a different man.”

“If Son Rodgers has turned into William Shakespeare, the world is a scarier place than I ever dreamed it to be,” I say with a snort.

“I'll make a copy of the poem and leave it in your mailbox, then you'll see what I mean. It's not only appropriate for us, it's so beautiful.” Then he plagiarized it, I think, but keep that unkind thought to myself as Dory continues breathlessly, “I decided the poem would be perfect for him to read at the ceremony. Right after breakfast, Son called Father Gibbs, who's coming over after church tomorrow so we can plan everything.”

With a sharp intake of breath, I say, “And you're telling me this because …?” I have a sick feeling about where she's going.

“You were the maid of honor at my wedding. I want you to stand up with me again.”

I turn away from her blindly, putting my hand on the bench to steady myself. “Oh, Christ, Dory, don't ask me to do that … please. Not that.”

Dory and Son had a spectacular wedding in their hometown, Mountain Brook, and after the wedding reception at the country club, Dory tossed her bouquet of orchids right into my arms. Had I not caught it, her and Mack's carefully laid plan would've backfired. I wasn't as surprised by catching the bouquet as I was to see something odd dangling from the white ribbons, something that caught the light from the chandelier overhead. Before I could figure out why Dory had thrown me what appeared to be her ring, Mack stepped forward and took the bouquet from my hands. To the surprise and delight of everyone present, especially me, he untied the ring and said as he slipped it on my finger, “It was Dory's idea to do it this way. Guess she was afraid you'd turn me down otherwise.” Everyone applauded; Dory squealed and hugged me, and I embarrassed myself by bursting into tears.

“Oh, honey,” Dory whispers. “I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have asked you. Really. Don't even think about it, okay? Forget I said anything.”

Standing behind me, she puts both her hands on my shoulders, then leans her forehead against my back. I long to turn around and put my arms around her. I want to tell her how much I wish I could feel good about what she's doing. I'd give anything if I could stand up at the renewal ceremony in front of her family and our friends and show my support of the vows she'll be saying. Before I come up with a response, Dory has squeezed my shoulders and scurried down the white-pebbled path, pulling the door shut behind her.

The group meeting goes unusually well, a blessing since I'm distracted after my talk with Dory. In my business, I can't afford to show it; no one wants to spill his or her guts to a therapist whose mind is a thousand miles away or, worse, who responds with a yawn or a vacant stare. I needed some time to process Dory's story but didn't get a chance to; the meeting was abruptly on me. My suspicions are that Son somehow manipulated the whole thing, taking advantage of her loneliness and confusion. Or could Dory have done it herself unintentionally? Maybe she'd gotten overly upset and called Son, and her emotional state caused her to remember the outcome the way she described it to me. Ever since I first met Dory, Son has been her Achilles' heel. I don't suppose I'll ever understand it. Not that I don't know what she sees in him, the hold he has on her, but that's a different thing altogether. It astonishes and amuses me now to think of my first days as a therapist, the way I was convinced that I'd finally see all the things I'd never understood before. What a fool I was! If anything, I understand even less now. After years of extensive study and a doctorate on the subject, I know quite a bit about what makes us tick, what motivates us, and what causes us to behave the way we do. But when it doesn't happen the way it's supposed to, I'm as perplexed and confused as I was before becoming a so-called expert in human behavior.

I think about it, looking around the women gathered here today, the beginnings of a new group of broken hearts, as Dory calls them. All of the women are going through the process, their divorces not yet finalized. Most of them will finish up by attending a retreat, since the primary focus is on recovery and the rebuilding of lives. For the retreats, I take not only my clients but also referrals from other therapists, though the groups are primarily made up of my clients. Today these women are all mine. I know their stories, but they don't know one another. I watch them size one another up, glancing around the circle curiously as they balance their plates laden with Dory's goodies. I see that Joanna Stuckey is talking quietly with Helen Murray, the oldest with the youngest, though it's doubtful they know that about each other. Or maybe they do. Joanna, in her late sixties, no doubt would have spotted Helen as being the one closest to her daughter's age, and she probably sat next to her for that reason, even if subconsciously. With that thought, I take a sip of my tea to hide a smile. Dory would laugh if I said that aloud, since she teases me about those kinds of observations. “Better watch out, folks, Madame Freud's at it again,” she'll say.

As I think of Dory and her revelation, something strikes me. How many of the women here today would do the same thing she's done? I've sat through session after session with them, listening to their stories of devastation and heartbreak, and it occurs to me for the first time that they'd go back to where they were before if they could. Surely not Joanna, I think. But am I right? I had my doubts about Joanna ever recovering from the shock of discovering that her husband of forty-five years has had another family in another state all this time, but as I watch her chat breezily with Helen and Helen's friend Sissy, it seems she's on her way. Yet I wonder if she wouldn't take her husband back if she could. In spite of her hurt and humiliation, all of Joanna's life has been dedicated to her family. It's all she's ever known. She'd go back, I think, dizzy with the realization.

The others I don't know well enough yet. Joanna I've seen twice a week for four months, but the others have just started coming to me, and summer appointments are always more relaxed, dependent on vacations, visits from relatives, and school starting back, among other factors. Helen Murray, talking with Joanna, is the one I've been most concerned about. Of this group, she's the shakiest. She's been in an abusive relationship for years but has lacked the courage to break free. As I pick up my material and take a seat in order to get the group started, I'm sure my epiphany was correct: Just as Dory has done, most of the women here today, if given the opportunity, would take their husbands back.

Over the muted sobs of Helen Murray, I hear a commotion in the reception area down the hall from the consultation room I use for client sessions. I look up from my chair, placed strategically across from the love seat where Helen sits. Helen, pale and haggard, was sitting on the front steps of Casa Loco when I arrived this morning, and she and I have just started our session. She was in the midst of telling me yet again how she's having to fight the desire to return to her husband. Not once have I heard her use the word “love”; rather, she's terrified to be on her own. When Helen confessed to her friend Sissy that her husband's abuse had gone beyond verbal and into pushing and shoving, Sissy got her away from him as fast as she could. Helen had gone directly from an overbearing father to an equally overbearing husband, a young partner in her father's law firm who was like the son her father always wanted, Helen told me. It's becoming obvious that she's a daddy's girl who married her father's choice in an effort to please him. I've seen hundreds like her, women who've always been so pampered and sheltered that they become helpless and frightened without a man in their lives.

Removing a soggy tissue from her eyes, Helen tilts her head in bewilderment at the racket, but I urge her to continue, raising my voice to be heard over the clamor. What on earth can be going on? Etta is not the kind to allow anyone in the waiting area to bully her into giving out an immediate appointment, to insist on seeing me, to demand to know where his or her spouse is, or whatever else could be taking place out there. Through the years we've had numerous incidents, but Etta has remained victorious.

Before I can speculate further, Etta's booming voice comes from the hallway right outside the consultation room. “Hey! Don't even
think
about opening that door, you hear me?”

I jump to my feet, the pad I'm holding spiraling downward, papers fluttering. On her last visit, Helen finally admitted that her husband's temper tantrums had gotten so bad she was more frightened of staying with him than of leaving. When the door is flung open, I expect to see him there, having tracked her down in a rage. While I don't know Mr. Murray, I do know how to handle this. As the door flies open, I cry out, “Call the police, Etta—
now
!” Calling the police is the last resort for us, since it disrupts the entire day; usually Etta or I can handle the disturbance and get the offender calmed down and out of Casa Loco by ourselves. This is the first time anyone's gotten this far past Etta.

When I recognize the man standing in my doorway, his hand on the doorknob and his face dark with anger, I'm too stunned to move. It's Son Rodgers, and he points a finger at me.

“You, Clare!” he says in a loud voice. “We're gonna have our little talk, and we're gonna have it now.” Son's blue eyes are blazing, and his full-lipped mouth is twisted into a snarl. Behind him, I see Etta lumbering down the hallway and turning the corner to the phone on her desk as she mutters to herself.

I swallow hard as a flush scalds my neck and face. “How
dare
you come barging into this room! I'm with a client now. Please leave immediately.”

Son jabs in the air with his finger, pointing it at me like a weapon. “Who the hell do you think you are, refusing to return my calls?” he cries. I'd received other angry messages from Son, including one this morning before I left for work. He said it was urgent that he talk to me about Dory; figuring it was another of his ruses, I decided to give him time to cool down first. “Guess you don't care that Dory's so upset she almost had another breakdown?” Son shouts.

I glance over at Helen, who's staring at him with wide eyes. “I will not discuss Dory or anything else with you now, Son,” I say between clenched teeth. “I repeat, you need to leave here immediately. I'll call you when I finish with my client.”

“I'm not going anywhere until you hear me out.” Son's lips curl into a sneer. “I've known all along what would happen with me and Dory once you started all this stuff.” He makes a sweeping motion with his arm, and his gaze falls on Helen Murray huddled on the love seat and blinking at him in a kind of daze. “Sure hope you're ready for your marriage to end, young lady,” he says to her. “Because I can promise you, this woman here”—he points at me again—“will try and talk you into it, just like she did my wife. Next thing you know, you'll be going to those retreats of hers, then you can kiss everything goodbye.”